


What Does Not Kill You

by TeyrianTimelord



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: A day may come when I stop writing Buckynat reunion fics, Branding, F/M, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Misogyny, Red Room (Marvel), Scarification, Torture, all the fucked up backstory you could want, appearances by Steve and the other Avengers, but it certainly is not this day.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 16:24:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12657168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeyrianTimelord/pseuds/TeyrianTimelord
Summary: Bucky has one scar in particular he wants to hide from the world. But Natasha knows better.





	What Does Not Kill You

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys are ready for the midnight ravings of a madwoman typed completely on her phone at strange hours of the morning, because that's what you're about to read!

She'd never admit it, but Natasha secretly loved the beach. After a lifetime of cold -the kind of cold that seeped through every bone until it seemed to reach the soul itself- the tropics were paradise. Nothing quite compared to the sun's sticky warmth beating down from a clear sky while wafting seaspray drifted in from over the ocean. When she could close her eyes and feel the sand between her toes and hear the crest of a surf, the winters of her past became almost nonexistent. Escapism was a rare thing in her line of work, but this was one of the few things that did the trick. So when Tony invited the whole team for a week-long retreat on a private island in the Bahamas, it was hard to say no.

                          

The "retreat" was the first time every Avenger was all in one place since the disaster in Germany. The reunion was tense, but that was the point. They needed to reconnect as a team again, away from the prying eyes of the United Nations or New SHIELD or any other government body or nosy citizens. There was a lot of broken trust and hurt feelings to mend, and who knew if that would get messy. The last thing the Avengers needed was another public implosion. But before any heart-to-hearts happened or Kumbayah circles formed, there was an unspoken agreement that they all just needed a day off at the shore. So there they were, heroes and criminals, law enforcers and vigilantes, friends and enemies, thoroughly enjoying a day out. A vacation.

 

Natasha planted her chair just close enough to the water that she could feel it graze her toes when a large wave rolled in. She wanted to watch, to see how everything would all unfold. Most of the boys ran right to the water. Clint was busy teaching (or, at least, attempting to teach) Peter and Scott how to surf, while Sam and Steve tossed a frisbee around in the shallows. Tony fiddled with Rhodey's mechanics to make sure everything was just right for salt water, closely assisted by T'Challa. Wanda and Vision were in an intense discussion over what appeared to be a sandcastle. Despite the occasional sideways glance or unintentional shiver, the air between them was far from the frigidity she had half-expected from a group that only months earlier destroyed half an airport to fight itself. Everyone seemed temporarily at peace... except for Bucky. He just sat far away from the water's reach, knees tucked to his chest, fully clothed, baseball cap pulled down over his eyes. Natasha resisted the urge to beckon him over. Things were different between them now, and she had to respect that. She wasn't sure what he remembered, so she refrained from making any reference to even knowing him before Odessa. He had not approached her about the Red Room so she followed suit. The last thing either of them needed was her pulling a trip wire in his brain and undoing all his hard work. However, she still observed closely as Sam and Steve walked his way.

 

"Why don't you come in the water with us, Buck?" Steve asked as charismatically and sincerely as a man could sound. "It'll be just like summers at Aunt Marge's lake house."

 

"No," Bucky replied bluntly.

 

Natasha could see the lines of sweat forming around his long sleeve shirt. It was way too hot for that much clothing. She could also see Steve's budding concern. All their star spangled man wanted was his best friend back, and while Bucky was making incredible strides away from the iron grip Hydra had on his brain, it just wasn't enough.

 

"Come on, man, you need some sun," Sam added, obviously trying to be helpful for Cap's sake. "Put on some swim trunks!"

 

"I said no," he snapped. Though the movement was small, subtle, almost undetectable, Nat noticed him shift his left shoulder, probably out of instinct. She wondered if he still remembered what it felt like...

 

_"James, we can’t," she whispered as he silently slipped into her bunk. "They'll have our heads."_

_It was true, but they both knew she wouldn't lift a finger to stop him. She didn't want to. Nothing made her feel more human than when she could unwind in his arms after a grueling day. The bruises, the aches, the raw gashes in her mind, they all seemed less intense. It wasn't at all like the countless other men their handlers had sent her to seduce and destroy. What they shared was real affection. Real intimacy._

_"I don't care," he murmured against the skin of her neck. "No matter what they tell you, no matter where you go, I'm yours. I'll always be yours."_

_Natalia was afraid of what might come out of her own mouth if she left herself unchecked, so instead of replying with words she pressed her lips to his, carefully but forcefully. As if proving he was real and not some ghost conjured by her imagination. To the Red Room he was only an object. They both were. Objects, assets, tools to be molded and used and owned. On paper, he belonged to Hydra, merely on loan to the KGB branch, but this act of identity was an act of rebellion. In the sanctuary of her bed alone, he could decide who he belonged to. In his heart, he belonged to himself. And to Natalia. She buried her fingers in his hair and let him pin her down._

 

Without any further provocation, Bucky rose to his feet and trudged off toward the massive house Tony had included in his booking. All eyes suddenly turned his way and a heavy pallor of nervousness descended on the remaining Avengers. He was breaking the illusion they so desperately wanted to maintain: that everyone was okay enough to act like this was just a normal family vacation. Steve's face contorted from happy-go-lucky ease to devastated concern, and Natasha finally knew it was time to step in. Make-believe time was over, and Steve would be needed in the larger group to work through the impending break. They couldn't spare him running after Bucky again.

 

"I got this," she said, getting up from her own chair and following Bucky's footprints in the sand back to the mansion.

 

Inside, the door to his room was closed, but she could hear the pattering of running shower water. Natasha knocked twice.

 

"I don't want to talk, Steve," came the faint reply from the other room.

 

"I'm not Steve, and I'm coming in anyway."

 

Pushing her way through the door, sure enough there was the open threshold to the bathroom, shower turned on at full blast. And there was Bucky, half undressed, surrounded by the remains of a shattered mirror, blood dripping out of his flesh-and-bone knuckles. She didn't have to guess why. He stared at her in silence for a few moments, a haze of confusion flashing over his eyes. Natasha figured he was processing it all, making sense of why she was there and trying to piece together the right memories to explain it. She knew he struggled with that frequently, and wished he didn't have to. Finally, he said,

 

"I didn't want to see it again."

 

_"Where do your loyalties lie, soldier?"_

_"Only Hydra."_

_"Who made you, soldier?"_

_"Only Hydra."_

_"Who owns you, soldier?"_

_"Only Hydra."_

_James recited the words like he had a hundred times before, but Natalia knew this time it was a trap. She tried screaming, she tried banging on the glass as hard as she could, but she knew he would not see or hear her. At least, not until it was too late. Her physical punishment would come later as well, she knew that too, but they needed her to watch first and it was so much worse. Helplessness._

_"You seem to need some reminding of that, soldier," the man in the black suit deadpanned, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a medallion the size of a outstretched hand, shimmering steel engraved with the Hydra emblem._

_He threw it in between the grate slots in the nearby furnace and Natalia's breath caught in her throat. She couldn't scream again if her life depended on it._

_"Remove your shirt, soldier."_

_James did as he was ordered without flinching, without even the slightest hint of fear in his eyes when he must have known what was coming next. Natalia tried to remind herself that they had both endured pain worse than this before, but she could not shake the bottomless pit of guilt and dread eating away at her stomach. Because this time it was her fault. The man in the black suit kicked James in the back of the knees, forcing him to the ground. Still playing his role as the ever-obedient servant, he did not resist, and did not stir as the man returned to the furnace. Using the tongs usually designated for arranging coal, he fished around for a few moments before reproducing the medallion, this time a smoldering red instead of cold silver._

_"Never forget that you belong to Hydra, soldier. Not yourself, and certainly not Romanova."_

_Natalia clasped her hands over her mouth when the man in the black suit plunged the medallion down onto the skin of James' chest, right against the scar line of his metal arm. She had hoped against hope that it would be quick, but that was not their way. The man pushed the burning metal deeper and harder into his flesh until James had no choice but to let his agony be heard. Tears stung Natalia's eyes as they streamed over her cheeks and onto her fingers. She had heard them torture him before, and he was equally familiar with the sound of her own screams, but at least before there had been restraint. They were careful not to do too much damage to the image of their greatest weapons. But this was violence over function, with all cares for keeping up appearances gone. The point was to teach a lesson, and that required no finesse or grace. The scalding steel was simply plunged as far into his skin as possibly, relentlessly and without restraint._

_When the man in the black suit was finally satisfied that the brand had done its job, -what had to be an immeasurable time later than any lesser man could withstand- he finally pulled it away slowly. The cooling metal pulled charred skin and fried muscle tissue with it, like the last reminders of cooked meat in an ungreased skillet. What remained was the ugliest burn Natalia had ever seen on a man left to live, and the scattered remnants of James' iron will. His face lost every ounce of color, his whole body wracked itself with pained shutters, and nothing was left to stop him from slumping to the ground. But worst of all, she watched with crystal clarity as the realization crossed his mind and reflected in his eyes. Now his arm had a signature. Even if he ran, even if he escaped, he would always be their property._

_"Romanova's beauty is an asset," the man in the black suit continued, seemingly unfazed that James was barely keeping conscious. "The cost of corrupting that would be self-defeating. But rest assured, after her next mission she won't forget either."_

_Natalia's imagination ran wild. The possibilities were endless. She could be left to freeze near to death in Siberia for a few weeks. Sent "undercover" in the Macau sex trade. Assigned to eliminate the families of witnesses in the United Nations. Her brain was already concocting scenarios to prepare for the worst. She would be ready, but he wasn't._

_"What mission?" James groaned through gritted teeth._

_The man in the black suit ignored him and instead made his way toward the door._

_"What mission?!" James repeated, this time nearly a scream._

_A sick grin crossed the man's face as he gave James one more smug glare before leaving him alone with only the smell of burnt flesh that was strong enough to waft into Natalia's room. She wanted to run to him, to tend to his wound, to take him in her arms and promise him that she'd be fine no matter what gauntlets they put her through. But all she could do was touch the glass between them and bite back a sob as he collapsed completely._

 

"I know," she said. "I'm sorry."

 

It had healed as well as a burn of that caliber could be expected to, but there was no denying that the man in the black suit had does his job well. The scar that remained was gnarled, disfigured, but still very clearly the Hydra skull, standing starkly out against the rest of Bucky's pale skin. He shook his head in disbelief.

 

"How? How could you possibly know?" he muttered bitterly, and a sting nipped at her heartstrings.

 

"Because I was there. They made me watch from behind a two way mirror."

 

The distance between them became uncomfortably far. She had done well since first seeing him again in Washington D.C.. It had been easy then to pretend he was nothing more than another face, anyone other than the love of her life. She had a mission, a job to do; there was no room to go looking for lost romances again. Up until now as far as she was concerned, the James she knew died a long time ago and Bucky was someone else entirely. But it was just that: pretend. And now she couldn't deny the painful truth that the man she loved was in there somewhere. Perhaps without any memory of her at all.

 

"No, that can't be right," Bucky said quietly, mostly to himself. "It...it was something I did. I was alone...I was...I was supposed to be alone..."

 

He stared at her for a few long moments, his eyes scanning every detail of her face as if desperately searching for another clue to help him put all the puzzle pieces together. Natasha didn't say a word. She was already worried that she had said too much and he might overload at the drop of a hat. But he surprised her. A glistening, terrified light of recognition shimmered in his eyes, and though he said it too quietly to hear, she could read it on his lips.

 

"What mission?"

 

_Natalia sat in the dressing room with her back ramrod-straight, staring herself down in the mirror to make sure she showed no fear. The Headmistress stood above her, brushing her red hair with an unnerving smoothness, as if she was hardly touching her at all, a taut smile on her withered lips. She never liked Natalia, no matter how much she succeeded. This opportunity must have been wonderful for her to finally take out her rage. When she was done with the brush, the Headmistress set it aside and placed her hands on Natalia's shoulders, again with a lightness that should have been impossible for such a harsh woman._

_"Again, Natalia. Who will you be?" she drilled._

_"Olga Somolva."_

_"What is your objective?"_

_"Intelligence only. Observe and report."_

_"Very good," the Headmistress said, giving her a condescending pat on the head too demeaning for an assassin of her skills. "You will be Mr. Burke's latest mail order bride, and do whatever is required of you to keep an eye on his weapon shipments. You will be the perfect wife, humble and obedient in every way, satisfy his every need. Only when we are satisfied with the state of his affairs will one of our standby snipers be authorized to terminate him. It could take months, perhaps years, but I confident you will do your duty for the motherland."_

_Though on the surface it seemed like a standard deep cover mission for the average Red Room agent, Natalia knew this was hand-selected to remedy her situation. She was familiar with Henry Burke's case file, an American business mogul by day and ruthless arms dealer by night. He had a fondness for imported Russian women, and it was not uncommon for those who did not live up to his abhorrent expectations to simply disappear. The Black Widow was a killing machine. One of the few pleasures she had in life was disposing of the men who thought they could take advantage of her; quickly, cleanly, and efficiently. That drive, that satisfaction, was what made her the best. And they were taking that away from her. Yes, she would still play the seductress, the beautiful damsel, the trophy, but this time there was no lethal relief at the end. Without it, Natalia wasn't a master assassin, she was a pet._

_Then the Headmistress leaned in closer to her ear, close enough that Natalia could smell the mint and gin on her breath, and whispered quietly for no microphone to hear, "Forget your place again, Romanova, and you will die as nothing more than another man's plaything before your soldier even notices you're gone. Understand?"_

_Natalia blinked hard to show her feigned compliance. She would kill every last one of them if they even tried to make good on that threat._

 

Natasha gave a quaint smirk, half for his assurance and half for her own.

 

"It was nothing I couldn't handle. They underestimated me," she said as nonchalantly as possible as she forced the memory back into its corner. “But that’s not important right now. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

She reached for his bleeding hand, but Bucky swiftly recoiled.

 

“No, Natalia, I-“ he stopped himself short and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

 

Natalia. Decades had passed since anyone called her that. In her own mind, Natalia did not exist anymore; that woman died locked in a training barrack in Russia, heartbroken and lost and so very bloodthirsty. She was a figment of her memories, a conduit to reassure herself ‘no, those things happened to Natalia, Natalia did those things, it was Natalia’ and recently is was ‘Natalia loved James Barnes.’ But this made it clear beyond any shadow of doubt. He remembered. In that moment it seemed a small piece of Natalia suddenly came back from the dead, risen from her grave and driven by nothing more than a fervent desire to embrace the man she had loved more than life itself. But Natasha pushed the figment back, just like the memory of her last Red Room mission.

 

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she repeated, and this time did not let him get away when she grabbed his hand to extract the pieces of broken glass still embedded in his knuckles.

 

They could get sentimental later. Right now, the Avengers needed to come together to fix what they had broken, and Bucky would not be doing anyone any favors if he kept smashing mirrors and needed stitches. Many things had changed over the decades, but Natasha’s hyperfocus was not one of them. They had come here to do a job, she had to remind herself, and it wasn’t to rekindle old emotions no matter how much her heart told her she wanted to. That mission had not killed her. That brand had not killed him. Another week would not kill them either. Still, as she picked the shards of glass from his hand, her eyes could not help but drift to the coiled skull peaking from his chest. And he noticed.

 

“Don’t tell anyone.”

 

She could tell he meant for it to be a command, but instead it sounded more like a plea.

 

“It’s not for me to tell,” she replied calmly. “But for what it’s worth, I think we can help you if you let us.”

 

“I couldn’t help you when you needed me…”

 

Natasha squeezed down on one of his cuts, not enough to cause any more damage but just enough to get his attention as she stared him down.

 

“We are not doing this right now, James. It doesn’t matter what I needed. What matters is that Steve needs you. This team needs you. I need you to pull yourself together so that when this is over, we can actually talk about what you’re remembering and deal with it properly. Understand?”

He responded only with a nod, though his eyes glazed over with something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. While she hoped she hadn’t stung him too badly, she knew they could make time for this later. Ultimately, it was up to him to decide how he would handle the oncoming storm of revived trauma. She hated it, they all did, but she knew as much as anyone that sometimes what does not kill you leaves a scar, and you just have to figure out what to do from there. As Natasha finished up her work and used a towel to dab what remained of the blood caked to his hand, she could feel Bucky’s muscles begin to relax from their tightness.

 

“Thank you,” he murmured.

 

Natasha nodded, and this time succeeded in forcing herself to meet his eyes instead of his burn.

 

“We shouldn’t keep them waiting. There’s a lot of family drama about to take place and we can’t hide up here forever,” she said with what extra warmth she could muster.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

And suddenly, there was the ghost of a smile on the very corner of his lips, just barely visible amidst the pain and confusion. Natasha realized that it was the first she had seen on him since the last night they spent together in the Red Room almost three decades earlier, and even in its faintest, she could swear that the glow of it outshined every scar on his body. She smiled back.

 

“Let’s go, James.”


End file.
